


this is the start (of how it all ends)

by shadowdance



Series: where the worlds clash together [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied Relationships, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowdance/pseuds/shadowdance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(for who you once were never really leaves you, does it?)</p><p>Lazward struggles into finding himself in the beginnings of a war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is the start (of how it all ends)

**Author's Note:**

> First off, this contains spoilers, and heavy ones at that. If you do not want to be spoiled, I would suggest not reading this for now.
> 
> This takes place in the 'third route' (or it will, anyways), and I'm slightly iffy on how the third route works, as well as the origins of Lazward/Luna/Odin of how they got there. If you notice any mistakes, feel free to point them out to me.
> 
> The title comes from Lorde's Yellow Flicker beat; Luna and Lazward had a former relationship. Okay that's all you need to know, so read onwards.

* * *

 

Nohr is dark and gloomy and big; the sky is nothing but dark, dark clouds, and from a distance, the castle looks a bit like a labyrinth, snaking its way into a giant circle.

Odin says, “Whoa.”

Luna’s hand reaches halfway towards Lazward’s, and then lets it fall to her side. “Are we just going to sit up here and enjoy the view? C’mon, let’s _go_.”

Her boots make crunching noises under the gravel as she walks away; Lazward exchanges a glance with Odin before scrambling after her.

“It’s nice to know you’re still the same as always,” Lazward notes, and Luna pauses, allowing a light smile to flutter across her features.

“Well, something’s gotta be familiar here, don’t you agree?”

Her words have more of an effect than she probably meant, as the rest of the walk to the castle is silent.

.

.

.

There is a king, and his name is Garon. He sits at the base of his throne and hardly seems to move; when he sees the foreigners, his expression contorts in an ugly glare.

Luna says, “ _Shit_.” Lazward looks at her, but she isn’t looking at him; instead, she’s coldly staring at the king. On Lazward’s right, Odin remains silent, eyes on his feet. His hands are shaking.

Garon says nothing to this; his cold gaze sweeps over the room, and then he points to Lazward. “You.”

He steps forward before the king, and when Garon raises an eyebrow, Lazward falls to his knees in a polite fashion. He has never had to kneel before a king before.

“Xander.”

A young man melts out of the shadows; he is tall and fair, blonde curls framed by a black circlet, and dark eyes that assess Lazward carefully.

Garon says, “I believe this man is capable…enough.”

“Have you seen him fight, _Father_?” Xander does not so much flinch, but there is a questioning tone hidden in the depths of his voice.

Lazward remains silent throughout the exchange, trying to hide his shock at the fact Xander is Garon’s son. Xander possesses all the handsome features that Garon does not.

“I will now.” Garon’s eyes flash red for a moment, and Lazward thinks, _I don’t trust you._ But he can’t say anything and he won’t say anything, because this is the King of Nohr and whatever he says can be held against him.

“You want me to fight him.” Xander’s tone is flat, and clearly waiting for the approval. Garon’s head dips down ever so slightly, and Lazward’s stomach turns on itself.

Luna says, “ _Lazward_.”

Odin is murmuring shit under his breath that Lazward can’t comprehend, but he hears _you can’t_ and he puts his hand on the dark mage’s shoulder to stop his train of words.

He steps forward.

Xander asks, “Are you scared?” There is no arrogance influenced in his tone; he really seems to be asking a simple question.

_Yes._

_I want to go home._

Lazward has to remind himself that this _is_ home now.

“Try me,” he says, and reaches for the hilt of his sword.

.

.

.

The duel is like a dance, an elegantly crafted tango; their feet move, carefully and quickly, and when their swords clang, that’s the music to Lazward’s ears.

They’re both equally skilled; there are times when Lazward is stronger and times where Xander is, but for now they’re on the same level, neither truly beating each other.

The tempo builds up faster and faster now, they’re building up to the highest point of the dance, the part that makes goosebumps creep up Lazward’s arms. The rest of the world becomes a blur as he twirls and lunges and _tries_ with all his might to become the leader of this dance.

And then their swords clash together once, blade against blade; Lazward is close enough to see the sweat beading down Xander’s face. They are at the climax now, fighting it out, deciding who has been leading this duel the whole time.

And then Xander pushes _hard_ and Lazward’s sword goes flying out of his hands, clattering to the floor; he trips clumsily, falls to his feet, and goes cross-eyed at the sharp tip of the blade pointing directly in front of him.

Dance over.

Lazward gets up and reaches for his sword. He can feel Xander’s eyes on him, and he’s very much surprised when the man speaks. “You’re pretty good.”

“Not good enough to beat you,” Lazward says, and finds a hint of a smile twitching on his face.

“Bullshit. You almost had me there.” Xander pauses, as if mulling over options, and then says, “I think my father was right.”

Lazward raises an eyebrow.

Xander smiles, and his features light up, almost like the sun. “How would you like to be a retainer?”

.

.

.

As it turns out, both Luna and Odin get jobs as retainers as well; they don’t tell Lazward how they did and Lazward does not ask them. It doesn’t matter, anyways; the only thing that does matter is that they’re together.

They don’t mention their old lives; it’s an unspoken agreement, as if to persevere the remains of their names, their old titles. It’s for the best, or so Luna says, anyways.

(Late at night, Lazward tries saying _Inigo_ ; the name crumbles on his tongue and he realizes he can’t say it without releasing an avalanche of tears.)

.

.

.

So Xander has another subordinate, a pretty young woman by the name of Pieri. She is nice enough, perhaps a bit psychotic, but she’s very loyal to Xander and has yet to kill him, and that’s the main reason why Lazward is not scared of her. And she treats him nice enough as well, too.

“Pieri doesn’t think Lazward is from Nohr,” she says once, after training; Lazward’s sword slips from his hand and clatters against the grass. “Pieri thinks Lazward is a good fighter, but Lazward’s fighting style is different from Pieri’s. Even Lord Xander says that Lazward’s fighting style is different.”

“Just picked up a few habits over the years.” The lie tumbles out of Lazward’s mouth so calmly that he almost believes it. Almost.

It terrifies him.

“Ooh!” Pieri claps her hands. “Lazward has to teach Pieri some of his moves, okay? Pieri wants to learn new ways to kill someone!”

The comment bothers him a bit, but he doesn’t let it show; this is Pieri, after all, and these comments are somewhat normal. “Yeah, sure.”

“Yay!” Pieri claps her hands again, and then she chirps, “C’mon, let’s go back to the castle! Pieri will race Lazward!”

She takes off without warning, her hair flying behind her; Lazward’s breath catches when he sees the faded pink tips disappear around a corner.

He thinks, _Olivia_.

He thinks, _I’m sorry, Olivia, I left you again._

He thinks— _when did I stop calling you Mother?_

.

.

.

Luna’s fingers dance up his shoulder. “I want to train with you,” she says; there is no trace of snark in her tone. “I miss doing that.”

“You miss kicking my ass,” Lazward responds, but he doesn’t refuse.

The following day, they fight with their swords; Luna is a tougher opponent, as she knows all of Lazward’s moves that he has been using against enemies.

They end with a flourish, a dead tie; Luna’s breathing hard, her breath puffs of air in the cold, and Lazward’s shield is dented now.

“You did good,” he says to her. “Almost got me there.”

She says nothing, just looks at her sword. The awkwardness hangs heavily in the air. Lazward hates it.

He clears his throat and says, “Look, I know we’re not supposed to talk about this, but—do you miss our old life?”

Luna looks up, and her eyes flash; for a moment, Lazward thinks she’s going to punch him, but instead she sighs and says, “I miss certain aspects. I miss our friends and I miss my mom and I miss—I miss a lot of things.”

Lazward wonders if she misses him, in the way life used to be back then. Something tells him not to ask.

Luna looks at her feet, and then back up at Lazward. She asks, “Do _you_ miss your old life?”

Lazward says, “Sometimes—I think my old life is fading away, and being replaced with this one.”

Luna doesn’t reply; there’s really nothing someone could say to that. Lazward looks at his feet, and really regrets saying that out loud.

Then Luna jerks her head up; the old mask is back, the disgusted frown on her face that hides all of her emotions. She starts to walk past him, shoulders barely touching, and then she stops and opens her mouth.

“Next time,” she advises, “don’t twist and turn as much. It wastes too much energy, _and_ you look even more ridiculous - more than you usually do.”

.

.

.

Odin peeks his head around a barrel. “So, Lazward of the Blue Skies, you are therefore implying that we have transformed into something we’re not?”

“No,” Lazward replies, and the dark mage sighs, ducking his head back down; they’re in the tent where Nohr keeps their extra supplies, the _convoy_ , and Odin is looking for a tome that he somehow lost during a small battle skirmish.

“Then what is the mercenary implying, then?”

Lazward shrugs. “It’s just—I sparred with Luna and we talked a bit and-”

“Ah, Luna the Crimson.” Odin straightens, emerging with the tome; it’s new and glossy, the dark purple cover pressed against his chest. “A fair and sharp maiden. She got you thinking?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Lazward studies the tome in Odin’s hands; it looks dark and venomous and mysterious, as if opening it would release terrible wonders to the world. “Odin—you’re a Dark Mage.”

“Well spotted,” Odin says, and Lazward detects sarcasm in his voice. He rolls his eyes.

“If you had a choice, between swords or magic, would you go back to using swords?”

Odin sucks in his breath, and Lazward waits. He knows they need to get going, someone could catch them in here, but he really, really wants an answer.

“Funny,” Odin says, finally. “I don’t know. Luna asked me about that, too.” He lets out a sharp laugh, but it doesn’t sound humorous.  There are no fancy words, no strange adjectives that stem his words into sounding exciting; this is where Lazward realizes that Odin is taking him seriously. “I like swords, they’re my area of expertise, but…change is good sometimes, you know?”

Change. Lazward realizes that he has come to really, really, hate that word.

Because change is good, yes, but sometimes change occurs against your will, and it spins faster and faster and takes everything you love right out of your hands and morph it into something completely unrecognizable; everything is disappearing, right before your eyes, and you can’t do anything.

“Right,” Lazward says softly instead. “Change is good.”

.

.

.

If there is anything that he can count on not changing, it’s his mother’s dance; Lazward remembers, once upon a time, when he made sure, everyday, to practice that dance. He hasn’t danced at all, not once since he’s stepped on Nohr territory. He’s not sure why.

(That’s a lie; Lazward hasn’t practiced because he’s scared, he feels out of place, and he just plainly hasn’t had the time.)

One night, when his dreams bleed into nightmares and there is absolutely nothing else that calms him down, Lazward throws off the covers and sneaks outside, clad only in pajamas and a sword by his side. His intention is to dance.

He finds a nice little clearing, similar to the one back in Ylisse. Though he is in a foreign land, yes, nighttime disguises the woods and paints them into shadows, into something that can make Lazward feel like he is at home.

He takes a breath in and closes his eyes. The dance starts off a bit rusty, he has to recall it at the top of his head, but once he’s got it going he’s _going_ , spinning and twirling and moving. His feet slap the ground and the routine falls into pieces, one by one.

When Lazward finishes, there is a sense of calmness washing over him, something that tugs in his heart. His mind thinks Olivia and home; this time, Lazward doesn’t feel like crying.

He opens his eyes, reaches for his sword, and walks back to the castle.

.

.

.

He finds that dancing is his solace; dancing makes him feel homesick, but in a good way. It’s his way to vent, to express his feelings without anyone seeing him.

Sometimes, when he’s angry, the moves will be furious and fast and he won’t stop until he’s gasping for air, breathing it in. Other times, more often than not, when he feels lost, his feet will shift and turn and make up a new dance, trying to fit the odd moves together to make a perfect dance.

Mostly, though, he dances and pretends everyone in Ylisse can see him, recall him then. He imagines all of their eyes on him, staring with unforgiving eyes and hurt expressions. His heart lurches.

He dances for them, to apologize for leaving so abruptly; he dances to say the unspoken goodbye he should’ve said before he left.

.

.

.

Pieri says, “Lazward has been looking more tired lately.” There is worry laced in her tone. “Is Lazward alright?”

Lazward ruffles her hair. “Lazward is just fine,” he says.

The late nights in the field start to increase in visits.

.

.

.

One night Lazward dances and feels a set of eyes on him.

And not metaphorically, not in his head; he whirls around to face a pair of red eyes, hiding behind a bush; they are wide and curious and _human_. Lazward’s mouth goes dry.

“Come out,” he calls, and hopes his voice isn’t as shaky as he feels.

Out steps a girl, dressed in a white nightgown; her hair is a creamy white, held back by a black headband. Her eyes bore into his.

“You dance well,” she says.

Lazward’s stomach churns; she’s seen him dance, she’s seen him—

“Thank you,” he says instead, and his voice sounds like velvet; he’s working up the charm, the flirtatious one, by default. “And you are, exactly?”

The girl raises an eyebrow. “You’re my brother’s retainer, correct?”

At this, Lazward splutters; he knows that Xander has sisters, but he has been dead sure that he’s met them both. Princess Camilla comes to mind, with her bright purple hair spilling down her shoulders and a cool personality to match; Princess Elise and her innocence, a smile always on her face and her verbal black and white dresses painted pink in certain areas. He was certain they were Xander’s only sisters, but looking at this girl now, he’s not so sure.

She takes this reaction in stride, however; she merely says, “So Xander hasn’t mentioned me.” It isn’t a question. Her tone is flat, but Lazward hears a dash of hurt somewhere in her tone.

“I’m Kamui. You know, the princess they hide in the castle and don’t let out.” Her lips quirk up in a smile, but there’s something sad in it. “I can see where you dance from my room. I decided to investigate today.” Her elbows scrape against her knees as she sits down, propping her arms up. “You’re really good. Even better up close.”

“Uh…thanks.” He knows he should be flattered, and he is; but his mind is still processing the fact that Xander has another sister, a secret one he’s kept away and hasn’t told him.

Kamui pauses, and slyness seeps in her expression. “Can you dance for me?”

“What?”

She laughs, and it sounds a lot like fine china tinkling. “I like watching you dance. Besides, I don’t judge.”

Lazward pinches himself; a part of himself is expressively telling him to say _NO_ , but he really can’t form the word. And if her claims are true, she is Xander’s sister, then he can’t refuse royalty.

“Uh…why not.” She smiles giddily and claps, and Lazward quickly adds, “But don’t tell anyone else, okay? This’ll be our secret.”

“Secret,” she repeats, and then giggles, and Lazward finds himself smiling too.

.

.

.

“You have a sister.”

Xander rolls his eyes at Lazward. “And you can see. I was beginning to wonder if you couldn’t.”

Ooh, what a comeback. Lazward bites his tongue to refrain himself from saying that and pushes forwards with his questioning.

“I’m not talking about Camilla or Elise.”

Xander hesitates, and shock flashes over his features; it’s small, barely noticeable, but Lazward catches it.

“So you’re just planning to keep Kamui a secret from everyone?”

“She isn’t a secret,” Xander snaps; he doesn’t ask how Lazward knows about Kamui, he just rolls right on. “She just stays in her room because Father doesn’t want her to leave the castle. He doesn’t want her escaping, running to the borders.”

“Why? Because _Hoshido_ will get her?” Lazward is all too aware of the _other_ kingdom, the enemy of Nohr that is everything Nohr is not. “Fat chance. Staying up in her room has to be lonely, doesn’t it?”

“It’s my father who keeps her up there,” Xander hisses. “It’s for her own good. And she’s training, too. Father is training her, he’s making sure she’s getting ready for missions—she’s not ready to go outside yet, that’s the thing.”

“She is your sister.” Lazward keeps his tone equally matched, sharp and quick. He can’t form the words properly, but he conveys all of his feelings into those four little words, hoping Xander understands.

The prince straightens, his face going slack; he opens his mouth, then closes it, and scrapes his chair backwards.

Along the way out, he calls over his shoulder, “If you see her again—keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t cross the border without—without anyone.”

.

.

.

Lazward dances for a long time that night; he’s so confused and so caught up in a whirlwind that all he can do is put everything in his feet, let everything tumble out. His brain concentrates on dancing and only dancing, and when he stops he feels like he almost forgot everything. (Keyword: almost).

He looks back up at the castle; there is a glow from a tower, a shadow framed in the yellow. Lazward assumes this is Kamui.

He lifts his hand up and waves; for a second, he thinks he sees a hand pressed against the window, waving back.

Then the light flickers out, and shadows take over the window.

.

.

.

He starts to run into Kamui more now; whatever Xander said, about her training, he wasn’t wrong.

Sometimes, he’ll be passing her in a hallway and he’ll catch a glimpse of her face, and her expression doesn’t look so worn down anymore, to say the least. She always waves to him, says hello quickly, as their shoulders brush.

Luna snorts when she sees this. “Does she only do this to you?” she asks rather snidely.

“The Forgotten Princess always greets Felicia and Jakob as well,” Odin pipes up. “And you care, Luna the Crimson, for what reason…?”

Luna flicks a strand of hair away from her face. “ _No_ reason,” she says, but her tone is still huffy and she keeps glaring at him.

Lazward thinks she’s jealous. He also thinks she has no reason to be jealous.

He still wears his ring, underneath his gloves. He’s not sure if he can say the same about Luna, but he knows that she thinks he doesn’t wear it anymore.

Lazward tugs on the glove with the ring and feels the small lump in place. It matches the one in his throat.

.

.

.

Lazward wakes up one morning and Xander is gone.

“Training,” Pieri explains, when he inquires why. “Lord Xander’s training Kamui today and it should take up a lot of Xander’s day! So Pieri and Lazward have a free day!”

Well then. That's that.

Lazward spends his free time in the clearing in the woods, tracing his fingers in the dirt over and over. His mind is wandering again, and he thinks of many things. Of Xander and Pieri, of his new job, of his old name, of Luna and Odin, of Kamui—

He sees that he drew the Nohr symbol into the dirt, and next to it, the Ylissean symbol.

He stands up, rubs the dirt until there is nothing there, and walks away.

.

.

.

Xander is freaking out the next day. Usually, he does not allow panic to take over himself, but he does today and that is what makes Lazward nervous.

“You have another free day,” he says tersely, to Pieri and Lazward. “Kamui—my sister—she’s gone.”

He looks so distressed, running his fingers through his hair. Pieri shrugs and skips away, but Lazward remains, watching the prince panic.

He puts his hand on Xander’s shoulder and says, “Hey—I’m sorry.” He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for; Xander hates apologies anyways.

But this time, Xander looks him in the eye. And when he speaks, Lazward knows he genuinely means it. “Thanks.”

And then the prince sheaths his sword and steps out of the room, leaving Lazward alone.

.

.

.

“This is really strange,” Luna says, when they’re hanging out on the top of a hill. She kicks her feet up towards the sky. “Lady Camilla was _crying_ today. Crying. They’re really worried about Kamui, aren’t they?”

Lazward shrugs and pulls his knees up to his chest. “They’re her family. Of course they’re worried about her.”

Odin looks at him; there is something written on his face that Lazward can’t identify. “Do you think our family did this when we left too?” Vulnerability leaks into his tone.

Lazward closes his eyes; they all know the answer, and said answer weighs heavily on him, feeling an awful lot like guilt.

Luna and Odin are both looking at him now; he can see it behind his eyelids. He reopens his eyes and stares straight ahead, focusing on nothing, nothing at all.

“Yeah,” he says, and tries not to let the guilt enter his voice.

.

.

.

“They found her!”

Pieri is what he sees when he opens his eyes hours later, her face inches away from his. “Lazward, get up! Xander found Kamui! Camilla found Kamui! Kamui is found, and Kamui can be taken-”

Lazward does not hear the rest of the sentence.

He fumbles with his sword, rushes down the hall, his feet pounding heavily on the ground; the door is already flung open, dampened light spilling into the hallways.

Luna and Odin are outside already, standing above the hill, surveying the area. When Lazward joins them, Odin shifts without looking so Lazward can squeeze between them.

Luna’s face is pale; there is something on her face that looks like fright. “Hoshido,” she says.

They’re all there. The Hoshido army and the Nohr army, squaring off, glaring at each other. The thing in their way is not an object but a person, a tiny dot from the distance. There are two of them.

Odin asks, “Are they going to fight?”

“How should I know?” Luna retorts tartly, but then she sucks in her breath and adds, “But if they are…I don’t want to die _here_.”

Lazward reaches for her hand; her eyes widen in surprise at first, and then she relaxes. Lazward nods and takes Odin’s hand in his other one.

“You’re not dying here,” he says. “And if you do, we’re not leaving Nohr without you.”

She blinks, and for a moment, Lazward thinks he sees her smile.

"Let's go," he says, and together, they sprint down the hill.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I literally feel like I wrote a billion different little snippets, loosely connected them all and called it a story I'm so sorry
> 
> The next one will be about Luna and it'll be so much better than this one I promise


End file.
